


as he goes left, and you stay right

by Neko-no-Tsuki (LunaKat)



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale, 半妖の夜叉姫 | Hanyou no Yashahime | Yashahime: Princess Half-Demon (Anime)
Genre: Anime/Manga Fusion, Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Family Dynamics, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Headcanon, Inuvember (InuYasha)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:01:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27558766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaKat/pseuds/Neko-no-Tsuki
Summary: “If you don’t kill him yourself,” Kirinmaru calls after him, not unkindly, “then I will.”Touga-o says nothing. He knows a losing battle when he sees one.(The Inu-no-Taisho and the sacrifices he makes for his family.)
Relationships: Inu no Taishou & InuYasha, Inu no Taishou & Sesshoumaru, Inu no Taishou & Sesshoumaru's Mother, Inu no Taishou/Izayoi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	as he goes left, and you stay right

**Author's Note:**

> Today is a "Free" day, so here's my contribution to Inuvember. Enjoy!

Touga-o has lived long. Perhaps too long. There was a time when the fire in his belly reared up at the slightest provocation, but no longer. Now there are few things that can ignite that great inferno once more.

This is one of them.

“That is my _son_ you’re talking about.”

Like him, Kirinmaru has weathered centuries. More centuries than he, actually, and it says something that Touga-o can match him in spite of that. Perhaps, like him, there was a time when the great Beast-King of the East ran as wild and unfettered as the deep crimson curls spilling over his shoulders—but like Touga-o, those shoulders have been pressed into a rigid line by the weight of rulership. The world has a way of battering ragged edges until they are smooth, and now the bone-white mask clasped over his countenance might be more expressive than his actual face. He reclines leisurely upon his throne of pale marble and golden veins, jaw rested delicately on the curl of his fist, peering down with a single, cutting green eye.

“He’s dangerous.” His voice is deceptively light, not unlike spun glass. The kind that slices deep when it splinters. “I’ve seen this happen before. He needs to eliminated sooner rather than later.”

It is known that the mighty Inu-no-Taisho is slow to wrath, but his outrage blisters the air now, leaves heat mirages dancing at his heels and sends cracks skittering across the ground beneath his steps. The distance between them shrinks in warning and his knuckles grow white on Tessaiga’s hilt. Only centuries’ worth of restraint keeps him from doing more.

“He’s still young. It’s too early to make such judgements.” By some miracle, the words do not leave as a growl, though they are clipped and poisonous nonetheless.

If Kirinmaru is moved, he does not show it. Mountains do not bow beneath a tempest, and his only response is to sigh tiredly, as though Touga-o were a child not understanding a simple concept. “It’s your own fault for having a child with that woman. What did you think would happen?”

“His mother has nothing to do with this.”

“I disagree.”

“Tch. Is _that_ what this is about?”

“This is about duty,” Kirinmaru replies carefully, and at least makes an effort to look attentive when he sits up fully. His horns twist out from his brow like warped daggers and cast bladed shadows at Touga-o’s feet. “I took up the mantle of balance-keeper, same as you. And you know, the same as I, that means we sometimes have to undertake unpleasant tasks.”

“This is not a _task_ ,” Touga-o thunders. “This is my _son_.”

Calmly, Kirinmaru tilts his head. “You have another one, don’t you?”

Only centuries of mutual accord keeps him from lobbing off the bastard’s head then and there. “If you truly think children are so interchangeable, then I pray you never have any of your own.”

The barb only glances off as Kirinmaru gives a light shrug. “I’m only saying.”

“Then kindly shut up.”

Kirinmaru’s second sigh is barely heard over the snap and crackle of Touga-o’s aura in the air. “You would be wise to heed my warning, Inu-no-Taisho. I know more about dangerous things than you.”

There is movement behind the headboard of the throne. The cold gleam of indigo scales undulating over hard, corded muscle. Lurid crimson eyes burn through the shadow. A forked tongue whispers through deadly fangs. Touga-o’s gaze roves the mass of coils laying dormant in the dark. Ryuukotsusei is a primal force greater than anything from nature, having burst out fully-formed from the netherworld itself, a sibling of the dragon-bones that forged So’unga. If given the opportunity, he would gladly burn the world to cinders at the slightest provocation, were he able to.

He was there, watching, when Kirinmaru subdued the dragon with old magick—something ancient and forbidden that still gives Touga-o chills to think about. He doesn’t know enough about spells, but he knows enough to know their permanence. Two hundred years, Ryuukotsusei has been enslaved by the enchantment. Two hundred years, Kirinmaru has spent in the company of a being whose greatest desire is to kill him.

Yes. Kirinmaru knows about dangerous things. He might know them better than anyone else.

“And _I_ know more about my family than you,” Touga-o says, with forced calm. And with that, he turns swiftly on his heel and stalks away, Ryuukotsusei growling disapprovingly at his retreat.

“If you don’t kill him yourself,” Kirinmaru calls after him, not unkindly, “then I will.”

Touga-o says nothing. He knows a losing battle when he sees one.

* * *

A week has passed since Sesshomaru saw fit to attack Touga-o’s hidden palace, the one where his wife and second son take shelter from a cruel world that would conspire to destroy them. It should have been safe behind the erected barrier, should have remained undetected by all—but Sesshomaru is nothing if not relentless, and so he found a way. The battle was not one that Touga-o wished to fight, but he fought it all the same.

Naturally, he held back. Still, a wound inflicted by the Inu-no-Taisho is not something to be taken lightly.

“How is he?”

“Sleeping again, probably,” comes Amakourin’s airy reply. Dawn breaks beyond the balcony, a pale fissure at the edge of the sky. When she tilts her head, the gold in her gaze becomes molted and the crescent on her brow is set ablaze. “He was up a little while ago. I’m sure you saw the wreckage of his tantrum on your way here.”

He did. A bloody score of fallen bodies. The land torn open by vicious claws. It smelled so strongly of death and venom that Touga-o nearly gagged on it.

Something must show on his face—she’s always been good at reading him—because she sighs forlornly. “Perhaps give him more time. He won’t be pleased if he wakes up and sees you now.”

“He’s rarely pleased, these days,” Touga-o grunts, already turning away.

All the curtains are drawn in Sesshomaru’s chambers, plunging it into a dusky gloom. Only sheer exhaustion could leave his son collapsed so gracelessly in his bed, fur unspooled from his shoulder and hair half-spilling off the mattress in silver tangles. The darkness does its best to conceal the mess, but even from afar, Touga-o can smell the slaughter sprayed over his skin, the carnage clinging to his clothes. How much is from his own still-healing wound and how much is from the victims is hard to say, even with his trained nose. Sesshomaru is still young, is still learning the art of clean killing—and as Touga-o approaches, he sees that his claws are splashed in gore up to the wrists and dripping languidly onto the pillows.

Sesshomaru breathes to a soft, slow rhythm. His face is half-turned into his fur, bangs conspiring to conceal the crescent on his brow. His slumber is sound, the kind that comes from the assurance of absolute safety. Touga-o hasn’t seen him like this since he was small enough to fit in his arms, and his son would lean into his chest and doze to the sound of his heartbeat.

There was a time when that memory wouldn’t ache. But somewhere between then and now, a rift opened between them without their noticing. Now, they are both stranded on opposite sides. And it has only widened.

Touga-o exhales through his nose. He brushes Sesshomaru’s bangs away with his knuckles, just like he used to. Back when blood didn’t fleck his hair.

“What am I going to do with you?”

* * *

Izayoi is not particularly fond of this practice, even if she understands the necessity of it. He can see _why_ she takes grievance with it, but he steadfastly rejects her suggestion to wait until a few years from now. It is better that he learns now, when he is still young, than than to falter when he is older.

“Papa, I’m _tired_.”

Outside, the night hangs black and desolate. Bleak without its moon.

Inuyasha is slumped against his forearm, one chubby cheek squished against a cold metal gauntlet. His human-dark eyes are wet and misty with tiredness, his eyelids drooping every few minutes. The candlelight shines orange on still-wet tear-tracks, remnants from when he twice tried to exhaust himself to sleep through tantrums. Every time Touga-o pokes him back to wakefulness, he is reminded of the temporary fragility in Inuyasha’s skin. The thought of the danger his son will face on these nights in the future overshadows any remorse for making him miserable in the present.

Sighing, Touga-o smooths a soothing hand over his hair. Inuyasha’s head is so small, it doesn’t even fully fit into his palm. He’s only recently turned two. “I know, son. Sunrise is just a couple more hours away. You can sleep then.”

“But I’m tired _now_!” Inuyasha complains. A fresh tear slips free of his lashes.

“I know,” Touga repeats gently. “But you need to get used to this for when you’re older.”

Across the room, Izayoi presses a finger to her lips. Then, in no less than three brisk steps, she has crossed the distance, and Inuyasha shrieks as she scoops him into her arms without warning.

The shriek turns to laughter as they both collapse onto the futon in a mess of inky hair and tangled limbs. Inuyasha writhes as Izayoi attacks his stomach with tickling fingers, and the tears painting his cheeks now are mirth instead of misery. Izayoi’s own laughter joins the chorus, bright and fearless.

It isn’t until Inuyasha begins to bat at her hands with tiny fists that she stops, rolling onto her side to grin impishly at him. “Bet _that_ woke you up.”

Side by side like this, with matching raven hair and midnight eyes, the resemblance is so sharp you could cut yourself on it. Izayoi can say all she likes that Inuyasha takes after him, but he knows the truth. He can almost imagine that the sun will never rise and they will remain like this forever, a perfectly human pair unfettered by youkai relations.

On these nights, Touga-o knows just how tenuous his connection to them really is.

As the horizon pales, Touga-o relents and lets Inuyasha crash before day breaks. Once the silver has returned to their son’s hair and his ears again perch proudly atop his little head, Izayoi rolls onto her back to stare blearily at the ceiling.

“Will it really be that hard?” she wonders.

“The world is cruel,” Touga-o murmurs, watching the sun rise slow and golden, “and we won’t always be there to protect him from it.”

Especially with the way things are going now.

* * *

Totosai is initially hesitant, but he reluctantly accepts the request and the twin fangs alike. All the while, he grumbles something about stubborn morons that would get most youkai killed for their insolence. Thankfully, Totosai has been a friend for decades now, and Touga-o cannot bring himself to be angry over anything right now.

“You know,” Totosai remarks, watching him carefully, “if Sesshomaru ever finds out about this scheme of yours, he ain’t gonna be too thrilled.”

A laugh leaves Touga-o at that, sharply bitter. Around him, the heat haze from the forge makes the air wobble until he almost can’t see straight. It reminds him of the palpable blood-stench from yet another battlefield he’d passed on the way here, once against courtesy of his eldest.

“That’s fine. He already hates me.”

* * *

“A wager, eh?”

Like all creatures who live too long, Kirinmaru craves entertainment. There is a certain boredom to be found in eternity, just as there is a certain boredom to be found in rulership. Together, they have the capacity to suffocate, if they are not staved off every now and again.

Touga-o knows this well. There’s a reason he wages so many wars in the west.

But now, the mighty Beast-King of the West is offering himself up as another’s plaything, and he swallows down his pride as he holds his head high and meets Kirinmaru’s burning green gaze. “Me against Ryuukotsusei. If I win, you will not touch either of my sons until they reach full adulthood.”

There’s no telling how long that will take. Inuyasha is likely to age at a human’s rate, while it will only take Sesshomaru a few more decades at least. But it will buy them time—hopefully enough for Tessaiga to ripen and for the Meido to reawaken in Tenseiga. And perhaps, by the time Kirinmaru’s hands are no longer stayed, they will be willing enough to fight at each other’s side.

Kirinmaru considers him. Though Touga-o is the one on the throne now, reclined in a seat of pale marble and silver veins, he still has a way of making you feel like you should be bowing. “And if you fail?”

“If I fail”—Touga-o breathes in deeply—“then I will submit myself to any request you give me from this point on.”

“Assuming you survive.”

“Assuming I survive.”

The Four Perils, garbed in glittering regalia for formality’s sake, exchange looks of amusement and dry laughter behind Kirinmaru’s back. They know a losing battle when they see one.

There are no fangs in Kirinmaru’s smile, but it cuts all the same. “Very well, Inu-no-Taisho. You have yourself a wager.”

* * *

“What a lovely little trinket.” The pendant spins in a slow circle as Amakourin holds it up to her face by the beaded chain. Stardust and planetary bodies glitter in the Meido Stone’s darkness as its face revolves in and out of view. She offers a faint curl of her colored lips in seeming appreciation. “A shame you never gave me jewels when we were still fucking.”

“ _Must_ you?”

“I’m only saying! It would have made the experience more enjoyable for both of us.” She sets the pendant down on her lap. The beads rattle in the folds of her skirt. “I might have even deigned to give you a second child.”

Touga-o sighs, but isn’t particularly surprised at this point. He wonders what it says about him that he actually doesn’t mind as much as he should, and even chose a woman such as this to be the mother of his firstborn child. Maybe Totosai was onto something with that moron comment.

The teasing gleam in her gaze dims, then, and settles instead into something somber and almost frosted. “So. You’re really going to go through with this plan of yours, then?”

“I am.”

Her claws drum against the armrest of her gold-wrought throne. A rhythmic _cuh-lick_ , _cuh-lick_ , _cuh-lick_. “And I don’t suppose I can talk you out of it.”

“You’re welcome to try,” he replies, smirking faintly despite himself, “but it’s not like you’ve ever managed it before.”

“Stubborn creature,” she mutters, turning away. But he knows her, can see the way her lips purse together, the subtle crease of her eyelids, the not-quite frown. Kirinmaru can say whatever he likes, but she has a heart there—if not, at least, the outline of one—buried deep behind her ribs and beneath the ice surging in her veins.

Sesshomaru had inherited his heart from her, Touga-o muses, along with her looks and temperament. Both his sons, it seems, were destined to take after their mothers. Neither really got all that much from him.

“Perhaps,” Touga-o agrees, following her gaze.

Scarlet smears are visible from the hallway entrance. Slow spots, distinct in their shape, too purposeful to be anything other than footprints. They leave a very distinct trail of loping, limping steps. He does not need to investigate to guess at where it leads. The carnage that he spied on his journey here was telling enough. The scent of death and venom lingers.

It is one thing to fell enemies. It is another to ravage entire armies on a whim.

“Even if you succeed,” she begins, a touch too slow to be entirely nonchalant, “you do realize that Kirinmaru won’t let this go, don’t you?”

Of course he does. That’s half of why he’s doing this, after all.

“You never did like him very much,” Touga-o remarks instead.

“Oh _please_. _He’s_ the one who has it out for _me_.” When she turns back to him, you would almost think him insulted, if not for the cold smile curling her lips. The one she gets when entertaining some morbidly pleasant notion. “Over an incident from centuries ago, no less—the vindictive horse.” The smile widens a fraction, just enough for fangs to show. “A shame I never _did_ end up killing him back then. How much easier our lives would have been.”

Perhaps it says something that, were the situation any different, he might have laughed. “And you say _he’s_ the one with the grudge.”

“Oh hush, you.”

He smiles, slow and sad. “Will you agree to my request, then?”

A sigh leaves her, soft as dew. “All this trouble,” she murmurs, hands folded primly on her lap, palms cupping the pendant like something precious, “for someone who still lacks the capacity to understand it. My, what a loving father you are.”

Slowly, he stands, his knees sore from kneeling. “...I can only hope.”

* * *

In Izayoi’s hands, the clamshell looks a little more impressive than it did in his. His hands have a way of dwarfing anything they hold, but hers are smaller and more tender and they are capable of awarding things the attentive care that they desperately require.

“This will protect us?” Her tone lacks skepticism, and when she opens the shell up to reveal the scarlet within, there is no judgement. She leans back against his chest without flinching, her head resting next to his beating heart.

“It’s infused with my power,” Touga-o explains, laying on hand over hers. It never fails to amaze him how soft her skin is, how delicate and silky it feels against the callouses veining his life-lines. “Worn by a human, it will disguise their scent. Worn by anything with youkai blood, it will temporarily grant them a portion of my power.”

That has Izayoi’s lip quirking curiously to one side, and she casts him a curious look through her bangs. “You want our son to wear _rouge_?”

Chuckling, he rests his chin upon her scalp. “I figured this would be easiest to sneak under your father’s nose.”

“Good point,” she murmurs, snapping the shell closed.

Unlike most human families, Izayoi’s clan had not _entirely_ disowned her when she married a youkai, and they are still willing enough to keep their doors open to her if ever she needed. They would take in Inuyasha as well, but would be far less tolerant of it. As such, they would likely be even less tolerant still of any youkai weaponry or protective charms on their property. Better to conceal said protective charm into something innocuous, then, than to have no protection at all.

“If it’s ever damaged, it will repair itself,” he adds absently. “Or, at least, it should. If it doesn’t, there’s still time for me to commission a spare.” When she doesn’t respond, he glances down at her. “Izayoi?”

Her fingertips feel like silk when they reach up to touch his cheekbone. She is looking up at him with liquid eyes and pursed lips, with the conflicted worry of someone who has never seen a star fall from the heavens. “Do you really have to do this?”

The kiss he presses to her temple is fleeting and harsh as a bite. “Yes.”

“Alright.” Her hair tickles his collarbone as she leans against him. Her lashes form lush, dark crescents on her cheeks. “But come back, okay?”

There is a promise in his throat, but wisely, he swallows it instead.

* * *

Confidence is one thing. Foresight is another.

When Touga-o makes the journey to Housenki’s swamp, he takes no bravado with him. After all, there is no need for inspirational speeches when the dust settles and the battle has ended. He greets the old jewel-master without pretense or false promises, with only the plainness of a man who has felt death’s breath on the back of his neck.

“You and your damn schemes,” Housenki grumbles, though his eyes betray his concern.

“I have my reasons,” Touga-o replies, which makes Housenki sigh and mutter, but he does not complain as he sets to work.

Similarly, Bokuseno does not particularly object when Touga-o visits him. The old tree seems to recognize the humbled air around him, and remains unmoved when he is caught up on what has occurred in the world of those with legs and the capacity for motion. When Touga-o is done speaking, he is regarded with half-lidded eyes and infinite patience and a wisdom that he knows he could never hope to match.

“You’ll send him on a wild goose chase, will you?” Bokuseno asks, finally, and does not outright condemn the idea, but does not condone it either.

“Yes,” says Touga-o, because Sesshomaru is nothing if not relentless.

“‘Seen but unseen. Protected, but unknown to its protector’.” Bokuseno eyes him for a moment, then blinks slowly in quiet acceptance. “Hm. Very well. I’ll pass it along.”

“My thanks.”

Because Amakourin doesn’t particularly care about minute details or the grand scheme of things, the time he spends discussing it with her is sweetly brief. There might be concern, if only for a moment, when the aftermath is alluded to, but it is gone too fast for him to be sure. She spends most of the conversation examining her nails.

“It’s a bit cruel, in places,” she remarks, with something almost like approval. “Not particularly like you—yes, yes, I know. Drastic measures. Well, good luck.”

Izayoi is briefed on more of it than most, not just because is his wife but also because she will be the one to retrieve Tessaiga when the time comes. It is a sword that was forged in her defense, after all, so it is only fitting that she be the one to present it to their son when he comes of age. So he patiently unspools as many intricacies as he can without confusing her, from the various purposes that went into its creation to the reasons for which it is coveted so to what the ultimate endgame will be once it falls into its wielder’s hands. As they talk in hushed tones and in the privacy of their room, Inuyasha dozes nearby, and Touga-o notices the absent twitching of his ear as though he were listening—not that it’s anything to worry about, because he’s too young to understand, much less actually remember.

“The black pearl in the right,” Izayoi repeats, nodding, her eyes steady. “Alright. Got it.”

Soon after, Totosai finally returns the swords, altered as per his specifications. Tenseiga, rendered useless as a weapon. Tessaiga, rejecting the touch of all who lack human blood.

So’unga, technically, is still viable as a weapon. But its aura is violent and unstable, has only grown more so over the last few years since he met Izayoi. To actively subdue its power during battle is a distraction that would only hamper him in the long run. And he dares not consider how the resonance between its blade and Ryuukotsusei, kin to the material that went into its creation, might leave it even wilder than it ever was before.

He orders Saya to seal it within its scabbard, which is then to be tossed into the bone-eating well rumored to reside in Musashi. Perhaps, when his sons are older and capable of cooperation, they will find their own solution.

For now, the mighty Inu-no-Taisho walks without a weapon for the first time in centuries.

* * *

Two days before the duel is to take place, the Beast-Kings of the East and West meet in the middle, as they have done many times in the past. Unlike their past discussions, however, there is no talk of potential threats to their respective domains or warnings shared from across the others’ border. This conversation is far more mundane, the placidity that is finding an agreeable time and an appropriate location.

It doesn’t last particularly long. Some travel across the land brings them to a canyon hat would prove a most suitable site for two monsters to tear each other apart without remorse or concern for their surroundings. They agree wordlessly that the duel should begin at around high noon, since that is the most respectable time for a duel to occur.

Throughout it all, they do not talk as enemies do. They never really were and, in spite of current events, even now they really are not. But this is simply a matter that neither will compromise upon, for the magma in Touga-o’s veins will harden into steel if need be and Kirinmaru is no more relenting than the tide against the shore. No matter how much they may pray for the other to yield, there is an unspoken resignation that it will never be so. So when their business concludes, the understanding between them is a grim one.

Kirinmaru hesitates before he leaves, looking back with something almost like concern in his gaze. “Are you really sure about this, Touga-o?”

Touga-o only smiles sharply. “You know, I’m getting really damn tired of everyone asking me that.”

* * *

“You have done many foolish things, Father, but this is truly your _crowning achievement_.”

“Don’t make me confine you to your bed, Sesshomaru.”

The snarl lobbed at his back is hardly a dignified sound, and it says something that Sesshomaru is allowing his composure to slip so. “Does that _half-breed_ mean so much to you?”

From his periphery, Touga-o observes his eldest. Red is bleeding in from the corners of Sesshomaru’s eyes, and the stripes on his face are darkening into jagged lines. If he were any less harried, he would not tolerate the mess that his hair is currently in, nor abided by letting anyone see him when his complexion is so wan. Dried blood clings to the undersides of his claws, remnants from what must have been another outing despite the healer’s orders. Crimson spots bloom across the white fabric of his sleeping kimono, right where the obi holds it closed across his stomach. Touga-o can smell the beginnings of infection setting into the wound that should have healed days ago but has been reopened yet again because it seems that, of all that things his son could have inherited from him, it was his recklessness and stubbornness that was passed down. The very things that could get him killed if he isn’t too careful.

“Go back to bed. You’ve been on your feet enough the past week, despite being in no condition for it. You need to mind your wound,” Touga-o chides, as patiently as he can, when all he wants to do is hold his son like he used to.

This is evidently the wrong thing to say, because Sesshomaru’s lips curl back to reveal the white of his fangs. “I am not a _child_.”

No, he’s not. At least, not the child he used to be. Touga-o can still remember how he used to scamper after his heels like he was the center of the universe, and the world was made to be caught in his gravity. He remembers the child that fell asleep in his arms at the end of a long day and looked up to him like he stood tall enough to scrape the heavens. There was a time when they would have inseparable, when the mere possibility that they would stand here now—with the rift between them aching like an infected wound—was unthinkable.

That time is gone and, not for the first time, he wonders how they got here. How the eyes that used to shine with awe grew narrowed by scorn and contempt. If he took a wrong turn somewhere, made a mistake that culminated into this.

If he did, he can’t think of it now. It’s really not the time or place, anyway. But it hurts to realize how badly he’s failed.

“Rest,” Touga-o orders, starting forward. “You’ll never recover at this rate.”

“You’re a fool,” Sesshomaru reiterates, as though that weren’t already obvious a thousand times over.

Dawn will be breaking soon. The sky is grey with daybreak’s promise but the stars cling to the heavens, hopeful to the end. He envies their tenacity. “Then I am a fool who will protect his family.”

Another snarl is lobbed at his back, followed by the stomp of retreating footsteps. “If you die, I’ll use Tessaiga to obliterate your grave.”

“Guess I’ll have to not die then,” Touga-o murmurs, but there is no one around to listen, now.

* * *

“Do you _gotta_ go?” Inuyasha peers up at him with big eyes and drooping ears and it’s almost enough to make even Touga-o’s mighty resolve crumble.

But he steels himself against it, forces himself to remember the sharpness in Kirinmaru’s gaze from that first day. How the promise of ruin and a dead son has been haunting his every breath since the moment those dreaded words were spoken into the world. As he drapes his old fire-rat cloak over Inuyasha’s shoulder, Touga-o reminds himself why he’s doing this.

“Here. This’ll be yours when you’re bigger.” It has been centuries since it was first woven, but the color is still just as vibrant as if it were new. It burns brighter than the heart of any flame and in its blazing folds, cradled in his mother’s arms, Inuyasha looks so terribly small. “And you’re gonna look after your mom for me while I’m gone, okay?”

“But _Papa_ —”

“Okay?” Touga-o presses.

“...fine,” Inuyasha huffs, and just barely tolerates it when Touga-o ruffles his hair.

Izayoi watches, eyes dark with worry. She says nothing as he presses a final kiss to her brow—slow, soft, tender, all the things he learned from her—but as he pulls away, he thinks he catches her opening her mouth to reiterate one final _Come back_. It never makes itself known, though, only remains unspoken in the air between them, the space between asynchronous heartbeats.

Her family’s castle is just a short trek from where they landed, far enough way that they would not be seen making their descent but close enough that they won’t run into trouble on their way there. Far too quickly, Izayoi’s back is melting into the forest as though she belongs to it. He stands there, watching the trees swallow up her departure.

When their scent has finally faded from the air, Touga-o turns away.

* * *

“Master, _please_ reconsider!” Myoga begs, tugging hard on a silver strand of Touga-o’s hair, as though it weren’t already too late and his mind wasn’t made up the moment he struck the deal. “You can’t possibly fight Ryuukotsusei without a weapon!”

“I have my claws and fangs,” he retorts, waving the flea off. “That will be enough.”

* * *

The mask on Ryuukotsusei’s forehead is the mark of his subjugation enchantment and it laughs mockingly as his jaws split Touga-o’s belly open.

There are no scratches on his body, no weeping wounds where the mighty Inu-no-Taisho has managed to strike a blow. Touga-o’s fangs have become legendary for their ability to piece anything that dares to challenge them, yet they scrape harmlessly across the impenetrable indigo that makes up the dragon’s hide. Even his claws only succeed in creating friction sparks where they fail to flay the bastard’s flesh.

Blood sprays the gorge walls, pools beneath his paws. A wound inflicted upon the Inu-no-Taisho is not something to be taken lightly. And Touga-o knows a losing battle when he sees one.

_If you don’t kill him yourself, then I will._

_Fuck that_ , he thinks, and lunges again.

He doesn’t know enough about spells, but he knows enough to know their permanence. When his claw sinks deep into the space just above Ryuukotsusei’s heart—he missed by a margin, and he blames that on the light leaving his vision—the dragon writhes and screams and curses against the cliffside until the ground itself is shaking with his fury. Then, and only then, does the unnatural slumber take him.

The sound of bickering draws his attention to the far side of the canyon, and the spot where his audience has taken their seats. Spilling out behind their master like a draping cape, the Four Perils squabble amongst themselves about the validity of a victory in which the opponent is not finished off. The Beast-King of the East does not chime in with his opinion, does not make any discontent known or bow his head in graceful defeat—in many ways, he is very much like the grave that Touga-o knows he will be seeing soon. Both silent in his judgement and humbling in his presence, but not entirely rejecting it when Touga-o begins to limp towards him.

Crimson drips from his jaws, between the cracks in his fangs. His pawprints leave smears across the stone. He blames any stumbling on the broken claw and how it is slightly more difficult to balance now. His approach paints a red river in his wake. Kirinmaru does not so much as twitch, only watches him with that single, cutting green eye.

“I won,” Touga-o rumbles.

There is a long moment in which Kirinmaru does not react, and Touga-o almost thinks he will go back on his word—but then he bows his head, graceful in defeat. “Very well.”

“Master, you can’t be serious!” Kyuki shrieks in protests, leaping to her feet. “The dog didn’t even kill—”

“He did not have to _kill_ Ryuukotsusei. Only defeat him.” After a long moment of Kirinmaru staring her down, Kyuki bows her head and lowers herself back to the ground. Once her submission is clear, Kirinmaru turns back to him, mouth a grim line. “A deal’s a deal. I will not lay a hand on either brother until they are both grown.”

Black spots blaze across Touga-o’s vision, and he can barely see straight when he bows his head once in silent thanks. Then he turns away, determined to at least make it home. To see the family he fought for, one last time.

Kirinmaru says nothing. He knows a losing battle when he sees one.

* * *

When word reaches the palace in the sky, Sesshomaru is understandably outraged.

Knowing this would be the case, Amakourin slips a sleeping drug in his tea when the news is broken to them by the unfortunate servant whose poor shoulders it fell upon to conduct the most unpleasant task. The moment he leaps to his feet—likely with the intent to go ravage more innocents and open his wound once _again_ , _really_ , Touga-o just _had_ to give her such a stubborn and foolhardy son—he sways and tilts back into the couch. There is an accusation clear in the bleariness of his gaze, but frankly, she’s had enough of finding bloody footprints all over her floors.

As she drags Sesshomaru back to his chambers—hardly a fitting task for a lady, but she is his mother, and that comes with certain indignities here and there—she hears him muttering something about human whores and their half-blooded bastards and does not correct him in his assumptions. It isn’t really her place.

What a pain that Kirinmaru has left her to deal with. She almost considers ravaging the East, just to make his life difficult, but ultimately decides against it.

“Rest,” she commands once she has dropped him in his bed. “And don’t you dare consider getting up before that wound heals. I don’t want to have _another_ funeral on my hands.”

People will say that Sesshomaru is different afterwards. Colder, crueler, more precise in his slaughter. Amakourin only sighs, studying the Meido Stone and its star-speckled darkness.

She hopes Touga-o knew what he was doing.

* * *

Izayoi has not been the same since the crying little flea came. Inuyasha doesn’t quite understand what it is that draws his mother to the windows late at night, or inspires such a slow sadness in her smiles these days, but he doesn’t like it.

His father still isn’t back yet. No one answers him when he asks what’s taking so long.

The fire-rat robes are practically drenched in his scent, his power lingering in their blood-colored fabric like a disguised blessing. Inuyasha buries himself in them when the nights grow deep, imagines that he and his mother are being circled by strong arms unseen to the human eye. Those first few nights, he tries to stay awake with the hope that he’ll catch his father coming back from wherever he went, but he always falls asleep and wakes to find the sun rising slow and golden from afar.

Eventually, he gives up on staying awake, figuring instead that his father will come tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next day after that. They have to go home sometime, after all.

Inuyasha waits, and waits, and waits some more—until he starts to forget what he’s even waiting for.

* * *

Touga-o’s vassals mourn like celebration. The night their general passes, they drink hot sake around a brilliant bonfire and fill the darkness with old war stories. Broken laughter reaches to the stars, somewhere between bitter and nostalgic. Amidst the slow, smoky chatter, old friends embrace each other by the shoulders, raising their drinking cups to the heavens in celebration of the man who united them all under a common cause.

Totosai keeps to himself, watching from afar as the grizzled warriors become sloppy by the flames. He says nothing, drinks no sake, makes no toasts. His head is too full of curses and insults and other things that would get most youkai killed for their insolence.

Myoga does not remember that night. He drowns himself in sake to make up for his shedding genuine tears—perhaps the most genuine in his long, cowardly life.

Tomorrow, they will get to work carrying out their master’s wishes. Doling out the inheritances as they were asked and hiding the entrance to his resting place and biding their time as his last scheme carries itself out.

Tonight, they grieve.

* * *

On his throne in the eastern palace, Kirinmaru watches as the west collapses in on itself without a strong leader at its reigns. It is almost tragic how quickly it devolves into a mess of warlords picked apart the bones of Touga-o’s conquests like the hungry vultures they always were. Too little time passes before the name Inu-no-Taisho fades into legend.

He sighs, somewhere between exasperation and genuine sorrow. “Such a poor, stubborn fool, that Touga-o. Had he simply chosen the half-breed, he might have lived.”

**Author's Note:**

> This particular plot bunny hopped to life while watching Yashahime. It'll probably get jossed later or something, but let's enjoy it in the meantime.
> 
> Anyone who can guess the origin of the title gets an internet cookie.


End file.
